Memoirs of a King: Nothing is Forever
by Kigeni
Summary: Centuries later, he would realize just how little his life meant with them no matter how much time had past. It was amazing what a little child could do to his outlook on life. [Character death, possible romantic themes if you squint]


**Memoirs of a King: Nothing is Forever**

**Teaser**: Centuries later, he would realize just how little his life meant with them no matter how much time had past. He knew that boy had looked familiar.

Author's Notes are at the bottom of the page

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He was old now. His body was twisted and weathered, finally collapsing after the centuries of its use. His magic was fading; no longer could he blast his enemies away with a wave of his hand. That had faded almost two hundred years ago. A small flicker of flame was difficult to maintain.

It had been over six hundred years since he was in his prime, doing his worst to be the best. He leveled cities, fought heroes, controlled civilizations, and had been on the verge of total domination before they began to die. First the scientist, peacefully in his sleep. The hero fell about three decades later of heart failure.

After that, world conquest had lost most of its meaning. So he had turned to his closest remaining ally, who was close to his own departure. He had stayed with the old man until his death day came and left as soon as it was over, empty inside.

The remaining three – all ghosts – were avoided. Their lives, longer than a human's, would still end far before his. It was better to let go before it happened.

Having lost his slave – his friend – he lost the will to keep going with his conquest and retired to a mansion set away from most civilization. What good was global control if they all died before you could even enjoy their suffering?

So five centuries had passed, and the world changed with the times, viewed from the windows of his aging, cared-for mansion.

Without the will to fight, he took to exercising when the pains started in his knees and wrists, determined to stay perfectly in-shape even if he really had no use for it anymore. He had enough determination to do that, at least.

His butler – the only one who was still alive with him after these years, he was certain – had found him during one of the exercises – push-ups, right? – and had been silent as the aging demon got to his feet, humbled by being caught in such a personal moment of weakness.

The next few moments had been tense, but the ghost-butler broke the silence with one sentence.

"You are getting old, master."

And he knew it was true. But he denied it anyway, as he was wont to do. It made his butler laugh.

"It would do you good to see the world now, while you still can, hmm?" He left a tray of food and beverage on the stand by the door, a smile in his eyes as he shut the door behind him.

It took at least one hundred and fifty years before he accepted his butler's idea. He was stubborn, and he was afraid of change. He didn't want to see the changes that took place in this world without his allies.

Without his friends.

Before, at over three hundred years old, when he saw how the world changed after he was freed, he had been scared. It was too different. What would it look like five hundred – now over six hundred – years after he withdrew?

The day he left, he carried a pack across his shoulders, now without a slave to carry supplies. He took nobody with him, despite the shake in his bones and the grey in his hair. He lasted about two days before rests became painfully frequent and he needed to purchase a cane to support himself.

His travels took him to the old village where his slave lived all those years ago, a place that still meant so much to him. It was still under the same name, which was really the only way he could recognize it.

Style had changed, buildings had changed, the people themselves had changed. The road, no longer the packed dirt he was used to, lead off to a gated area with children. He first thought it was a holding area, but listening to their laughter, he knew he was wrong.

"S'matter, mister? You wanna play, too?"

He had looked down at the little boy tugging on his jacket, the same design he had always favored. His clothes had been made and cared for as well as his house had been. He was surprised at the boy's appearance: his hair was that very same shade of red, with those same green eyes,

"No. I just don't know what this is."

"It's a playground, mister. You're weird. But I like you. My name's Ruka."

He smiled, gnarled hands shaking on his cane. "That's a nice name, kid. Fits you."

The boy beamed proudly. "Mama says it's a special name."

"I'm sure it is. But I think you look more like an Ari."

"Ari? That sounds weird. Is it your name?"

"No, it's not," the old man laughed. "It was the name of a good friend of mine."

"Oh… Is he dead?"

"He's been dead and buried for… I don't know anymore. I lost count a really long time ago."

"I'm sorry, mister."

"Don't be. You didn't know anything about it."

"Hey. I didn't ask for your name, did I? What is it?"

He smiled at a hidden memory and blinked away a tear. "Stanley. Stanley Hihat Trinidad XIV."

"That's a long name!"

"It's the only one I have," he had said with a grin.

"It's funny!"

"Guess it is, huh?"

So it happened that little Ruka bought some meaning back into the old shadow demon's life. A month had gone by in good spirits, leading into a painful period where he had grown sick quite often, leaving him bedridden. Before that second month was done, he had written two articles: his will, sent to the aged James – he knew he would never be able to make it home to deliver it in person – the other was a letter to the curious young boy he had befriended, explaining everything he couldn't say during those two months as a gesture of thanks for the visits and the company.

Within the week, he had let go of his last breath with a smile and no regrets.

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Ruka had received the letter the day after the funeral. His mother had to read to it to him, as the boy could not stop crying.

After the read the demon's name, the woman had asked if any of it had made sense. Ruka had nodded and as soon as he was able, he began to train to honor Stan's final request.

Become a hero like the individuals he used to know and keep their spirits alive.

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**A/N**: Several things. 1. I KNOW Ruka is Ari's Japanese name. The Ari who died in this story is just that: Ari. Ruka was just a symbolic connection I thought would be rather neat, sort of like Stan got another chance to say good-bye to Ari without it being Ari. Does that make sense?

2. How long did it take you to realize it was Stan I was talking about? Really? I thought I did a good job, but how'm I supposed to know, yeah?

3. Stan's age at his time of death is about 950. My logic: He looks about thirty in the game, and he's over three hundred. Roughly, that's 30 300. So 90 900, and an extra five ('cause 95 is really old in physical standards), would be 95 950. With me so far?

4. I think I gave you all enough clues to figure out who was who after you find out who Stan is (if you didn't know early on). Tell me if I'm wrong.

5. Don't chew me out about Stan's personality change. You try losing your only friends and see how that works out for your mental state. Can't be too good for you. :/

Really, I doubt the other members of Okage would ever be able to live as long as Stan could unless there was some serious magic involved. This was the result of such a thing. A sort of bittersweet, cute little ficlet that ended sort of awkward, but I like it all the same.

And Okage: Shadow King is © Zener Works. Don't own it, though my friends say I must have with all the crazy stuff in it. –brick'd-


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